The Pirate Princess
by Championship Vinyl
Summary: They all lived happily ever after - until a shocking twist of events sends 14-year-old Waverly on the adventure of her life! Funny, daring, takes cues from both the book AND the movie...fun for all Princess Bride fans! Please, read and review!
1. By S Morgenstern, Chapter 1

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**All right, buckle up! There's been a lag in my FanFiction lately, but THAT, my friends, is about to change. ^^ With pride I present to you my brand-new baby, my epic multi-chapter adventure.**

**First of all, yes, it's about The Princess Bride, of which I own nothing. At all. Secondly, you ask, "which version are you going off of? The book or the movie?" ^^ MY ANSWER: A blend. For instance, their daughter Waverly was in the book, and she's my main character, but if I'm referencing a line or something it wil most likely be from the movie. (Oh, and since GOLDMAN never finished writing the sequel, I don't know if they'd have more kids or not, so I just left the topic alone. Waverly **_**may**_** have siblings, she may **_**not**_**; your guess is as good as mine. But **_**I'm**_** not creating them.)**

**ONE MORE THING: Since the full title of the book is "The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale Of True Love And High Adventure," XD , I've decided to follow suit. SO. The full title of the story you are hopefully about to enjoy is THIS:**

_**The Pirate Princess: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale Of Swashbuckling Thrill And The Bonds Of Family.**_

**XD Well, here goes nothing! Enjoy....**

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"Is he here yet?"

"Not yet, sweetie. Play your video games."

"He said he'd come!"

"Well, I'm sure he's on his way."

As if on cue, the old man burst into the room with his usual flair, giving a wink to his grandson he hadn't seen in weeks. He held something behind his back, and the boy was positive he knew exactly what.

"Grandpa, Grandpa! Didja bring it? Didja bring The Princess Bride? C'mon, I know it's behind your back---lemme see."

"Hold it, sickie, don't get your shorts in a knot." The old man pulled a chair up to the boy's bedside as his mother slipped quietly from the room. He took his time sitting down---his ancient knees didn't behave as they once did---and pulled a worn hardcover book from behind his back.

From the boy: "All right! I _told_ you. Start at the 'Farm boy' part this time; that was good." He didn't bother to notice that, where the old book had a brown cover, this one was bound in navy blue.

The grandfather smiled. "It's not The Princess Bride."

The boy stopped. "Huh?"

"I brought ya something a little different this time. Oh sure, same _characters_ and all, but...well. You'll see." He licked his thumb and brought it down to crack open the pages.

"So, is it like a sequel?"

"Something like that. Now shut up."

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It was just after midnight on the small farm, and there was no light around for miles, none but the moon. Waverly lay sound asleep in her room, dreaming of traveling the world on her horse---and, it has to be said, that even at the tender age of fourteen, even there, asleep in the moonlight, Waverly was easily the most beautiful girl the human eye had yet seen. This she owed strongly to her mother, Buttercup, who, at Waverly's age, was only barely in the top twenty. Now she rested quite happily at number two, quite satisfied with deferring the honor to her daughter---that is, she _would_ have been, if all this was something that either of them had been _aware_ of.

Waverly's sharp mind, however, her knack for learning and her bravery, these things were owed to her father, Westley. Her fencing skill, unheard of in any other girl her age, was owed him too, and also to her 'uncle' of sorts, a mighty swordsman by the name of Inigo Montoya. He slept as well, several rooms away, on the opposite wall from the gentle giant whom Waverly had always called 'Shade.'

Now, it should go without saying, Buttercup and Westley were fast asleep also, rooms away from the others. Westley was on his side of the bed, Buttercup on hers, they were in each other's arms, Buttercup's autumn hair fanned out across the pillow....

And then suddenly, she wasn't; her form snatched away, her place empty.

From out of thin air, two men dressed in soldier's uniforms had Buttercup by the wrists and ankles. Now she was awake, but it was too late to cry out; now she was bound and gagged.

Westley was awake long before that.

His eyes flashed open, his feet met the ground, his hand flew for his sword. The intruders drew theirs, and there was a clash of steel.

The two tried to overcome him with speed, but Westley was stronger. They tried to best him with strength, but Westley was faster. Each crash of his sword put fear into their eyes; each step he advanced on them sent them hurrying into retreat.

And then they tried to beat him with numbers.

Westley's advantage over the first two was just becoming clear, their surrender imminent, when another ran in to defend them, joining in the duel. Then a fourth. A fifth. Six men now. Seven.

Westley tried every style, every move in the book, but even his quickest Bonetti was no match for this many men; even he at his best couldn't hope to come out of this alone. He was clearly outnumbered and was just about to shout for Inigo.

He never got the chance.

One of them was behind Westley now, and any expert could tell you that once such a stage was reached, it was all over. Without hesitation he raised the butt of his sword, aimed for the head, clubbed.

And all Westley knew was darkness.

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**Review! I'll be eternally grateful... ;]**

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	2. A Daughter's Duty

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**The next morning. Go on....**

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Waverly did enjoy sleep. Not because she tired easily, she never had; simply because her dreams allowed her to go to places she'd never seen. Some of them didn't even exist, others not outside of books and fables. The sun knew this about her, so it thought it fitting to help wake her up every morning, brushing its soft light against her fluttering eyelids. The wind knew this too, and did its part by sending a gentle breeze over Waverly from her open window. The birds, thinking it helpful, chirped their friendly greeting as they always did, just after dawn.

Waking, Waverly sat up, and there was still the hint of a sleeping smile on her face as she thought, gracious, wouldn't it be nice to _really_ visit Madrid?

She stepped out of bed, washed her flawless young face, and ran a brush through her hair with as few strokes as she could get away with. Not bothering to change out of her nightclothes, she opened her chamber door and breezed out into the kitchen, where she gathered a few apples and took them with her to the stables.

Waverly never minded handling this chore; in fact, she rather loved feeding the horses, and today she greeted them by name---first Westley's, then the one Fezzik and Inigo traded off with, then Buttercup's, and lastly her own.

"Good morning Falcon; good morning Domingo; good morning Horse Jr; good morning Colt," she said brightly. Call her silly, but she loved them like family. Waverly gave each one its apple, and she sat with the horses watching the sunrise as all four of them contentedly munched their breakfast.

It was well past that when Waverly stood and headed back toward the house. Once inside, she found something rather odd: her parents weren't awake. True, Waverly herself was an especially early riser, but she never beat Buttercup and Westley by more than half an hour or so. They were usually sitting at the kitchen table by now, and it disturbed her to find otherwise.

_They must be tired_, Waverly decided, creeping toward their room to confirm it. _They've slept in, poor things, must be overworked. I'll just check on them, then perhaps I'll bring them some breakfast---for a change, anyway, it isn't so difficult..._

And all thoughts of cooking came to a halt.

Waverly opened the chamber door.

All too instantly she knew something awful had happened, and she gasped at the sight. The bedclothes lay twisted, unmade, the curtains slashed across the center, torn down the side. All around there were shards of a vase and the splinters of a chair that had been broken, the rest of which lay upended on the floor. Muddy footprints spread in a drunken scatter over the rug, looping back and retracing themselves time and again.

More importantly, Westley and Buttercup were gone.

Waverly ran.

The door to Fezzik and Inigo's chamber burst open and banged into the wall. "Uncle Inigo! Shade!"

Inigo sat bolt upright, from what _had_ been a very deep sleep. "HELLO! MY NAME IS---" He blinked, looked around. "Waverly! What is the trouble?" Fezzik sat up too, rubbing his sleepy eyes with giant fists.

"Something's happened; come quickly!"

That was all Waverly said, and she was gone, back toward her parents' room. Inigo traded a confused glance with Fezzik, but there was no time to waste, he decided, and he changed quickly, running after Waverly down the hall. Fezzik followed, confused, lumbering behind them.

"Waverly! Talk to me! What---"

Inigo stopped dead in the doorway, gaping in silence at the destruction. Immediately he knew what had gone on here.

The footprints on the floor hid nothing. There had been a duel here, Westley against multiple men, maybe as many as half a dozen. Inigo felt a terrible pang of regret, felt responsible: if only he had heard, if only he'd _been_ here, fighting at Westley's side, then maybe..._maybe_....

He sighed. Maybe two of his dearest friends in the world wouldn't be captives right now.

Inigo was pulled from his thoughts by the sight of Waverly, pushing past him and starting off down the hall. Inigo followed on her heels. "Waverly---where are you going?"

"I'm going to find them," was all the girl said.

"To---run that by me again?" The Spainiard stopped in his tracks a moment, just to make sure he'd heard correctly, then his quick legs caught him up to Waverly; his spry arms stopped her by the shoulders, turned her around.

"You cannot go."

"But I must!"

"It's far too dangerous."

"If _I_ don't find them, who _will_?" Waverly challenged.

Inigo bored his kind black eyes straight into Waverly's wide, determined sea-colored ones. "Waverly, listen to me. There is nothing you can do. If your father were here he'd say the same as _I_ am. Going off to save them will do nothing but get _you_ killed, and I promised him long ago that I would not let that happen. He has his mind, he has his sword, and your mother---" Inigo shook his head. "---she is far too stubborn to be harmed. Don't worry for them; they'll be all right." He hid his concern well, for Waverly's sake. "Now, please, why don't you come along with me, and Fezzik and I will make you some breakfast, hm?"

For her part, Waverly listened to his entire speech, and she understod the motive behind his words; she just didn't _believe_ them. Anyone who could capture her father could probably do far worse damage, too, and there wouldn't be much time to fool around.

But to Inigo, Waverly only smiled, her bright eyes softening from determined to acceptant. "Whatever you say, Uncle Inigo. May I at least change first?" She gestured to her blue lace nightgown.

Inigo was only too happy to oblige, considering the bullet he'd just dodged. "Of _course_, child. You get dressed, and I will cook you breakfast just as I cooked for my father all those years. Run along."

Waverly's smile held. She walked down the hall. She slipped around the corner.

And when she was sure that Inigo was in the kitchen, she snuck back the other way, into her parents' room, because she, Waverly, had seen what Inigo had not seen.

Westley's sword, clearly not with him, dropped and lying on the carpet.

Time was of the essence: in fact, the words 'terrible rush' were an understatement. With this in mind, Waverly knew exactly what she had to do. Quickly she crossed the ransacked bedroom; quietly she opened a drawer and removed a box from the very back---a box she wasn't supposed to know existed. The lid came off with ease.

The ceremonial moment went quickly. A touch, darkness, a knot, eyes open again, and the mask was secured around her head.

Waverly took the ribbon out of her long golden braid and twisted the braid around itself, using the ribbon to secure the bun and covering the whol thing with the kercheif, color of midnight. Another knot, and that was on too. Next came her father's wardrobe, where she quickly traded her light blue gown for a shirt and pants, black as a solar eclipse.

There was only one thing left.

In the furthest reaches of the wardrobe, as far back as you could go, was her father's scabbard, and she took it, fastening it across herself over the outfit. Then at last she re-crossed the room, knelt, and took the grip of the mighty sword in her hand.

Now, there were increasingly few people in the world, at this time, who truly believed in connections with inanimate objects. Waverly had never been one of them, but even for she, there was no denying this: from the moment her fingers touched the hilt, it was almost as if the sword _knew_ it was in capable hands, in those of its master's cherished offspring. It knew from _that moment_, were such a thing possible, that all would be well.

Inigo would be getting curious soon; it was now or never, and never was never an option. Waverly sheathed the great sword, scribbled a few words on a blank letter, and left it behind, wrenching open a window.

The pane shut behind her. The stable doors creaked. And by nine a.m, to the sound of Colt's high whinny, Waverly rode into the morning.

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***insert suspenseful music here* XD Well?? Reviews please!!!**

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	3. Montoyas Don't Surrender

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**And so the great adventure begins! ;] I'm drawing more from the book now, kinda going for Goldman's style here...book-influence is pretty much equal with movie-influence now. Great book, if you haven't read it. Anyway. Keep a-readin'....**

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Fezzik was getting hungry. Already this morning had been such an eventful one for him, what with his friends being missing and everything, and breakfast smelled so good, but for some reason Inigo---

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"Grandpa, wait."

The old man was quite used to these interruptions, and he looked up, not at all surprised. Bit exasperated though. "Yes?"

"Lemme see if I got this right." The boy leaned forward. "Westley and Buttercup got kidnapped."

"Sure did."

"And Waverly dressed up as Westley and snuck out to go rescue 'em."

"Looks that way."

"And Fezzik's thinking about _breakfast?_"

"What? He's a very big guy."

"_Grandpa_..."

"Look, do you want me to read you this or not?"

The boy looked down. There was no denying it, he was way too involved in the story _now_; to stop here would mean restless nights for a week. "Yes."

"All right then." The old man sat back, brought his finger to the page. "Now, where were we..."

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But for some reason Inigo wasn't serving it, or even paying any special attention to cooking it anymore. He looked more distracted than Fezzik had ever seen him before. And Fezzik didn't like being the rational one. It unbalanced things.

"She does not take this long getting dressed," Inigo muttered all of a sudden.

_Vest_, Fezzik thought. Rhymes always made things better. "What do you mean?" _Clean_.

With no warning Inigo turned on a dime and stalked out of the kitchen, full of purpose, and Fezzik followed him. His mind was going twenty miles a minute. "She's gone after them," he declared without turning.

"After Westley and Buttercup?" There were no rhymes for that; he'd have to think of one later.

"Of _course_ Westley and Buttercup; who else is 'them?' No one else has been taken."

_Shaken_. "Are you sure?" _Lure._

Inigo reached the door to Waverly's chamber and threw it open. She wasn't there. Without a moment's hesitation he turned, went for Westley and Buttercup's room, and threw that door open too. No Waverly. He found the letter lying on the bureau and held it up for Fezzik to see. "Positive. What more proof do you need than that?"

Frustrated, Inigo put a hand to his brow and dragged it down his face, and when that wasn't enough, he kicked over the remains of the chair. After a good long sigh, he held up the letter and read it aloud.

"'I am sorry. Please do not follow me. I'll be all right. Love always, Waverly.'"

He stewed over that for a second, and then like a roll of thunder Inigo was off again, carving a new path through the house.

Fezzik kept on his heels. "Where are you going?"

"We're going after her."

"I thought she just said _not_ to."

"You'd listen to a fourteen-year-old girl?"

"I listen to _most_ people."

They were back in their own room now, and Inigo dragged a knapsack from under the bed, tossing things into it here and there. He was silent for a long time, until finally, quietly, he said, "I am to blame."

_Shame_. "Don't say _that_, Inigo..."

The Spainiard shook his head. "I failed him." Then, figuring he'd better elaborate: "Westley. He first spared my life, then saved it, he helped me defeat Count Rugen and avenge my father, and what do I do? I let him get captured and send his daughter escaping out the window."

"But Inigo, you didn't---"

"No time for talk," he interrupted, a new determination taking him over. There was no other way. Not now. "The Montoyas are no failiures. You take Falcon, Domingo is mine, grab only what you can and meet me at the stables."

Inigo turned to go one last time, and there was a fire in his eyes now, and Fezzik saw it, and that comforted him somehow. The Spainiard was back, and a grin spread over Inigo's face. "Prepare yourself, Fezzik: we ride within the hour."

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**Now all our favorite heroes are in action...except for one...and where **_**is**_** he? You'll just have to keep reading to find out, won't you? ;] Love the reviews.**

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	4. Back To The Beginning, Like It Or Not

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**All right, I've kept you waiting long enough...without further ado....**

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Westley awoke to the sound of a constant drip from somewhere over in the corner. He was underground, that much he knew, but other than that nothing rang much of a bell. Having already pried his eyes open, Westley went to move his arm...or his leg, or anything else for that matter...nothing budged. He was chained, he realized---there was no use in trying. It was like being mostly-dead all over again.

He sighed. _Perfect_.

As his last events in the waking world slowly came back to him, Westley remembered with a start that he hadn't been captured alone. He shot his gaze in every direction, but it turned out he didn't have far to look; Buttercup was chained on the other side of him.

She was waking now too; apparently they'd been slipped something for the trip. "Westley...?" he heard.

"I'm here."

Buttercup's voice was breaking a little, part from sheer grogginess and part from worry. "Where are we? Where's Waverly?"

Westley skipped the first question, since he had no answer for it, and did a wonderful job concealing his panic involving the second. "It's all right, she's safe at home with Fezzik and Inigo," he lied, hoping to God it was the truth. At least she wasn't chained here with them.

"Well, then who is responsible for this?"

"I don't know."

"What do they want from us?"

"I don't know."

"Well what about---"

"Darling, _look_," Westley cut in. "The last time I had tea with our captor he wasn't feeling quite as _chatty_ as usual..."

Buttercup would have crossed her arms had the chains allowed for that. Just the scowl would have to do for now. "You don't have to be that way with me, I was only asking."

"I know as much as you do of the situation."

"I'm imprisoned here too you know."

"And I'm merely trying to _remedy_ that, love," Westley assured. He looked around the room then, dimly lit as it was, careful to take in anything that could eventually be used to their advantage.

In short, there wasn't much.

Ignoring the whole 'escaping' dilemma for the moment, Westley turned his attention to Buttercup. "Are you all right?"

"A bit weary, honestly, but nothing's broken or anything, and I don't feel poisoned," she replied. "You?"

"Splendid."

Buttercup gave him a look.

Moving right along: "What can you remember about the night we were captured?" Westley asked.

She thought about it a moment, before answering, "Well, I was asleep, then suddenly these men---"

"How many men?"

"Just the two at first."

"Anything significant about them?"

Buttercup shook her head. "They were dressed all alike, in some kind of uniform."

"Right. Go on."

"---when these two men came in and tied me up, and by then you were awake. Oh Westley, I was so frightened when all those others came in; I thought they would kill you for sure...."

"Shh, it's all right. They couldn't have if they wanted to."

That puzzled her. "They didn't want to?"

"No. They wanted us both and they wanted us alive," Westley concluded. "It was clever of them to go for you first; naturally they expected me to challenge them, and they made a special effort to take me along when they could have just as easily killed us both once I was unconscious." He shook his head now too. "Whomever has done this is either very smart or is very familiar with our behavior."

None of this was really doing much to relieve Buttercup, though it _was_ a little comforting just knowing that Westley was on the case. He was always so sure, and nothing ever went wrong...actually, scratch that, _lots_ of things generally went wrong; they just weren't his fault. At least nobody ever died. Permanently.

She was still pretty lost about now, though, that didn't change---and really, who could blame her? "But Westley, who could possibly want us alive, or dead either, for that matter?"

Westley didn't answer.

He couldn't.

Buttercup's words and the chains across his body and the lump on the back of his head all faded to nothing, drowned out; he couldn't register them.

Because he'd just registered something else.

He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before now. It was the same, exactly the same---different in _some_ ways, of course; obviously _it_ had fallen into disrepair without its creator to tend it...but the place was showing its age now; cracks in the walls, the leak in the corner; probably they'd been the first held captive here since...since...

"Westley...?"

He reeled it in. He came back. When he looked at Buttercup's perfect, worried face, he was perfectly calm.

Outwardly.

"I know where we are," he said steadily. "I know who has us."

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***suspenseful music again* XD There's your first hint toward what's going on, and if you think you know already...well, you'll just have to stay tuned to see if you're right then, won't you? ;] Next chapter brings us back to our heroine, so in the meantime, tell me what you liked so far! Review please! **

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	5. Kill Me Then

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**All right, let's catch up with Waverly, see where she's gotten off to...and I can guarantee you're gonna like this.... ;]**

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Two hours of riding Colt through the rolling countryside had left her here, alone on horseback, staring out at the ship-filled harbor and beyond that, the open sea. Ordinarily that wouldn't have been a problem; ordinarily, she would have just turned back around and gone home, except _today_, she couldn't _do_ that. Today she'd been following the tracks left all the way from her house, and now the tracks had ended and the water was before her and Waverly had no clue where to go next.

But that wasn't going to stop her. With a heavy heart she dismounted Colt, and with a flick of his reins he was headed back for the farm, riderless.

Waverly took a deep breath as she looked out over the harbor. This was it. It wasn't the best method in the world but, having no other recourse, she spotted a ship that was shoving off, and without a second thought, she ran for it, making it onboard just as the gangplank was pulling up.

And slamming into someone in the process. "Hey, watch it!" He was fat, gruff, and _not_ in the best mood.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I---"

"You a stowaway?" the fat guy interrupted.

Waverly blinked. "Pardon?"

"We don't _tolerate_ stowaways." The fat guy had friends, and three of them were around her now, and it wasn't looking good.

"Oh, I wasn't---"

"_Listen_, stowaway," he had a sword in his hand now, and the others were reaching for theirs, "I think it's best if you just don't say a word, _got_ that?" Waverly was beginning to panic.

Until she remembered she had the golden ticket.

To them, she wasn't the fair-haired girl, to them she was a theif in the night, a young masked stranger, and more importantly, she had _it_. With a movement so quick it was almost undetectable, thanks to her lessons, Waverly's hand went for the hilt of Westley's sword, and she was unarmed no more.

The girl smirked, put on her most mysterious, confident voice; to the untrained eye, she _was_ Westley. "I am the Dread Pirate Roberts," she bluffed---after all, Roberts was legend, no one had met him to confirm his age or even gender---"and _I_ think it's best if _I_ do the talking."

The sailors traded an apprehensive glance. They weren't sure quite what to make of this, but apparently they had no desire to try their luck. All four of them returned their swords to their sheaths.

"That's better," Waverly said.

"S-s-s-sorry, w-we, we had no---"

"P-please don't---"

"Enough," Waverly snapped. Of course, the men had no way of knowing that inside she was shaking with fear. You wouldn't know it to look at her. "Leave me be and you'll keep your lives. Now go."

They couldn't have left faster if they'd had wings.

With such a sigh of relief, Waverly sheathed the great sword and settled in for the night.

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She awoke to the sound of crashing and yelling up on deck. With no warning, Waverly and every other passenger of the _Mary Columbia_ were being herded out of the hold, going single file up the narrow stairs, all but her with petrified looks on their faces. Hers was just confused.

A voice began to be heard, ringing out through the crisp night air, echoing through the black sky. "This is the Dread Pirate Roberts!" it called. "There will be no survivors!"

On deck now, Waverly's heart was in her throat. She didn't have to worry about her bluff being called; within minutes her life would be over. She had failed her parents. Her eyes were wide and tearless, she was in a state of near-shock, and she realized, she'd never see her parents again, or her Uncle Inigo, or Shade; she'd never see Colt again or bring the horses their breakfast, or ride the morning away through the hills....

"Line them up," Roberts commanded, and his men obeyed, arranging the _Mary Columbia_ passengers in a row. Roberts moved down them, one by one, his midnight boots rhythmically hitting the planks as he came nearer and nearer to Waverly.

Waverly kept staring straight ahead. She could hear Roberts' men toss each captive overboard, and she had no desire to see that as it happened. And then it was over, because Roberts was right in front of her.

"Hm hm hm hm," Waverly heard him chuckle. Surprised, she looked up into his cold black eyes, the eyes of her father's successor. "What have we here---an adoring fan?" Roberts mocked. He gestured to Waverly's costume, then his own. Identical. "Hardly original, child."

Waverly's eyes narrowed indignantly. If she was going to die anyway, she wasn't about to let this most recent Roberts-imposter speak to her like that. Of all aboard either ship, only the two of them knew of the inheritance arrangement. "I'm _not_ a fan, and if you mean to kill me, then _do_ it! Don't just stand there presuming you _know_ me."

Roberts was incredulous; no one had ever dared talk back to him before. His surprise wore off in a second, and now he was angry. "Remove the mask," he barked. "_Now_. I wish to see the face of the brat who dies at my hand."

"My father was a better Dread Pirate Roberts than you'll _ever_ be," Waverly muttered under her breath, reaching for the knot.

"_What_ did you say?"

"I _said_," Waverly shouted, ripping the mask from her head, "that _my father_ was a _better_ Dread Pirate Roberts than _you'll ever_ be!" Her golden hair whipped in wisps around her flawless face; her sea-colored eyes bored into Roberts in defiance.

And Roberts saw her. And the wind was knocked out of him.

_Her father..._

"Take the girl back to the _Revenge_," he ordered quietly, turning to one of his men. "Bring her below and put her in my quarters. Be sure of it if you value your life."

"I swear it will be done," the sailor nodded, and he dragged Waverly along to the ship feared by men far and wide. Roberts, black as night, mind whirring, stalked away in silence down the line.

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**o.O ... XD (For anyone who's going, "wait, wasn't Inigo the next Dread Pirate?" : Remember, I'm going by a combo of the book/movie, so in **_**my**_** version Inigo would have only been the DPR for a few months, before returning to his friends. In the book there was a guy who was in line to be it next, Westley's second-in-command, so that's him now; you'll meet him better later.)**

**PLEASE review, tell me what you liked...I'll let you live... XD **

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	6. No One Of Consequence

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**'Kay, some big plot things are coming up now. Oh, and if you haven't read the book (which I highly reccomend doing, it's awesome), One Tree Island is where the gang fled to in the first and only existing chapter of the sequel, right after the events of the movie/first book, to escape Humperdinck and heal up. I say that now so nobody will be scratching their heads later. ^^ Okay! On with the story.**

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"Report."

Yellin crept forward in a hurry. It was well known that to keep the king waiting was to reserve a place for yourself in the unemployment line. Or the morgue. Having been the city's Cheif Enforcer for many years now, he didn't see a pressing need to be in either. "We've recieved word from my men that the two you wanted are in custody. Found them living in the countryside at our last search location. They're being held in Florin as we speak."

"Excellent." For the first time in several years, Humperdinck---

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"I _knew_ it!" The boy yelled suddenly. He sat forward with such force that his lunch almost ended up on the carpet.

His grandfather was less than amused. "What? What's all this about? You'll make a mess."

"_Humperdinck!_ I just _knew_ it was him who took Westley and Buttercup! It couldnt'a been anybody else. So, what, he's the king now? But he never got married! I think Westley shoulda just killed him before. What about Waverly, the Dread Pirate doesn't kill her does he?---"

The old man started to shut the book, and the kid took that as the warning sign it was. He put a lid on it.

"Listen, you want me to continue with this or go?"

"Don't go."

"Then pipe down, I'm gettin' to it. Drink your juice."

As his grandfather found his place, the boy sat back again in resignation, and took a half-hearted bite of his sandwich that he was almost too distracted to chew.

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"Excellent." For the first time in several years, Humperdinck smiled. Genuinely. Lecherously.

Needless to say things had been less than stellar since the..._incident_ at the quincentennial. The entire near-wedding had been one surprise after another, and Humperdinck _hated_ surprises. But eventually his father had died---one day he just stopped mumbling, and that was that---and the country had needed him and he'd been wifeless and heirless and well, there you go. He'd finally had to marry a Guilderian baroness---oh, the cruel irony in that, it was like being stabbed in the eye---and he even spoke to her every so often, but in a cruel trick of fate he still hadn't been provided a child, future king or otherwise. In a stroke of genius, he'd selected a peasant child and dressed it up, let it wave to the crowd at gatherings, and that was enough to fool the people for the moment.

But not a day went by when it wasn't painfully obvious to Humperdinck that he'd been made a fool of. And if there was anything he hated more than surprises, it was being made a fool of. Hours of his time and years of his life's energy were put into hunting the earth, far and wide, determined to find his ex-fiancée and that stupid man who _just wouldn't die_. The young lovers who'd decided it would be fun to ruin everything. The only two people on earth who'd truly earned Humperdinck's fury. And now he had them.

And by God, this time, he'd die.

Humperdinck stood, brushing the nonexistant lint from his vibrant wardrobe. He leveled a crooked gaze on Yellin. "They're in the Pit of Despair?"

"Exactly as you specified, sire," came the answer. Quickly.

The King turned to leave. The look on his face was without emotion; he and only he would know the joy this news had brought him.

"Return to Florin and await my arrival. Prepare my armada. I'll be paying our guests a visit soon enough."

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After she was thrown into Roberts' cabin, Waverly sat alone in the dark room, staring at the planks she assumed would be her last surroundings in this lifetime. It was a fair guess to say that probably no one but Roberts had seen these quarters and lived.

She didn't know what Roberts wanted from her, but Waverly had come to accept her fate, and she passed the time now with the consoling thought that her father had stayed in this vey room. For the thousandth time she wondered where he was, and her mother...were they all right? Were they alive? Not that it would matter soon; in moments, she wouldn't be either.

Roberts knew differently.

Once he'd returned to the _Revenge_, the Dread Pirate spent a few minutes pacing the deck in frustration, behavior which generally frightened the daylights out of his crew. Didn't matter---at least maybe it would get them to accomplish something.

He still couldn't believe his ears---and his eyes weren't that trustworthy, either. But there was a gut feeling there, an instinct, and he knew in his heart that neither of the senses had lied to him. His master, friend, predecessor, however you wanted to label him, he had lived. He'd made it to One Tree Island, and at some point, made it off again. Somewhere in all that, he'd procreated.

This was Westley's daughter.

A lot of information to get in thirty seconds.

This was a matter to be dealt with personally---and quickly. Without keeping her waiting any longer, Roberts broke off mid-pace and took the stairs that led below, two at a time.

Waverly was still sitting in silence when the door swung open, and Roberts strode in, shutting and bolting it behind him.

Waverly spent no effort on petty blubbering, didn't plead for her life, simply growled, "Don't waste your time. You would murder a child? Be done with it then."

The pirate shot her a disapproving look, swiftly taking a seat across from her, hands on his knees. He spoke quickly. "Just hold your tongue and listen for a moment. I'm not going to kill you." Reaching up he pulled the black mask from his head, and that and his words both surprised and confused the girl, though she couldn't help but begin to feel more optimistic about the outcome. "I knew your father," he continued. "I served as his first mate during his years as the Dread Pirate. My name is Pierre. I was to take the title after him but I received a letter from a Spanish fellow; he took it for a few months first, then to me after. He's a good man, your father, a better man than I; I'd gladly kill for him, which I've done, and I'd gladly die for him, which I've almost done on several occasions. I owe it to him to help you now."

Waverly listened to all this, greatly relieved to see a friendly face, if more than a little surprised at where she found it. His story checked out---come to think of it, she could recall her father mentioning a Pierre a time or two, and she vaguely remebered her Uncle Inigo's lost months, back when she was still very young; piracy hadn't really been for him. It came as a surprise that Pierre still _held_ the title, though; most other Roberts had only had a five-year run or so, she knew---but then, who could blame him for hanging onto it? It was a lucrative enough living. Just about the only thing that _didn't_ surprise her was Pierre's loyalty to her father. Westley was expert at making friends where he should have made enemies. "Why didn't you just say this before?"

Pierre leaned back in his chair, kicked one ankle over the other, with a smile: "The Dread Pirate Roberts never takes prisoners, remember?" He thought bettter of it---too cocky---and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. "I'm taking a big risk just having you in here. Word gets out that the Dread Pirate's gone soft and it'll be work, work work all the time. Tell me---where were you born?"

"One Tree Island."

Pierre let his head drop, shook it back and forth, not bothering to try and conceal the grin. "He made it then. I'll admit I had my doubts but.... My God. If anyone could, I suppose..." Looking back up at the girl, he resumed his train of thought. "We have a lot of catching up to do, you and I, for two people who've never met."

Waverly smiled. "I suppose we do."

"First things first. You're how old, now?"

"Fourteen."

"And---forgive me, I didn't catch it---your name?"

"Waverly," she supplied.

"Ah. Answer me this then, Waverly. What is a fourteen-year-old girl doing alone on the high sea? If I know your father he'd never allow it."

"He doesn't know," Waverly stated. Her tone grew quite serious. She was all business.

"_Tell_ me you're not _running_," Pierre scoffed. He didn't believe that for a second, and was slightly surprised he'd even brought it up.

"Of _course_ I'm not running."

He knew that. He'd feared it, too. "Then he's in trouble," Pierre concluded. He stood from his chair and started to pace back and forth across the cabin.

Waverly's brow furrowed. "How do you know that?"

"Call it a lucky guess." He stopped pacing and looked in Waverly's direction. "What is it then---he's injured? Shipwrecked?"

"Kidnapped."

"_Kidnapped?_" Oh, this was bad. Pierre dragged a hand down his face. It was _worse_ than bad. _Much_ worse.

Waverly wasted no time with the explanation. "My mother is with him too. They were taken in the dead of night by armed men with horses and their trail led me to the harbor the _Mary Columbia_ set off from."

"How long ago?"

"Two nights ago, counting this one."

"Then there isn't much time. They'll have been in Florin by sunset." Resuming his seat across from her, Pierre sighed, and looked Waverly in the eye. "I suppose I'd better tell you what I know...."

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**So, the mystery is revealed; this is all King Humperdinck's doing. So here Pierre tells Waverly that he knows who has them and the whole story behind it, blah blah blah, stuff we already know. Westley and Buttercup are onto it, Pierre and Waverly are onto it, you, the reader, are onto it...basically the cat's out of the bag---**_**Now**_** the question is, what's going to happen? You'll just have to keep reading to find out.... ;] REVIEWS are GREATLY appreciated, guys, thankya! XD **

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	7. I Don't Suppose You're Joking?

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**Time to catch up with our dynamic duo, don't you think? ;] Keep readin', don't let me stop ya....**

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The whole 'going after Waverly' thing had been progressing splendidly so far. Granted, it hadn't been the ideal way he'd planned to spend this time, but Inigo had very few complaints.

Until the trail of hoofprints ended. At the harbor.

Inigo brought Domingo to a full stop, and behind him, Fezzik did the same with Falcon---who, by the way, was used to carrying Westley, and as a result was having difficulty catching its breath at the moment. Not helping matters, the giant leaned forward.

"Did the tracks stop?" _Shop._

Inigo got off his horse and examined more closely. "No. There is another single set of prints heading off that way, but there is nothing there." Waverly wouldn't have turned, she would have sent Colt home and followed the other prints to the harbor, and that's what Inigo did now, with a "Yah!" and a flick of Domingo's reigns. He watched for a moment as the horse galloped off, clearly clueless as to where it lived, in a completely different direction than the one of the farm. Ah, well, none of the four creatures had ever been the brightest anyway. They'd make it back eventually, after a few days of roaming; theirs was the only residence for miles. Seclusion had been key in the beginning---obviously it hadn't done them any good _this_ time....

The Spainiard shook his head, marched for the docks. "Come Fezzik."

He followed, sending his exhausted horse after the others. "What are we going to do now?" _Cow._

"We're hopping a ship."

_Trip._ "To where?" _Share._

They were right up on one now, just as it was about to lift anchor, and Inigo sprinted up the gangplank, Fezzik lumbering behind him. "Who else would want Westley and Buttercup but Humperdinck? And where else would Humperdinck be than Florin?" he explained. "So, we'll find Waverly in Florin."

Fezzik always felt so much better when Inigo was in charge. He always figured things out so easily.

At that moment, a sour-looking muscled fellow approached the two of them with a blade and a disdainful sneer. "Hey! Whaddaya think you're---"

Inigo didn't have time for this. He sighed, and the great six-fingered sword was whipped out of its sheath and slashed across the air, and the sour one stepped backward like his life depended on it. Which it did. "Keep your 'hey,' we're in a hurry."

Enough said. The man ran off without another word.

"That was quick thinking," Fezzik said in relief. "He looked scared."

A shrug, and the Spainiard started toward the cabins below. "Yes. Well. We must be prepared."

"Oh, Inigo, that's a wonderful rhyme...."

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Waverly sat on the starboard side of the _Revenge_, strands of her golden hair gently batting at her face as she looked out at the setting sun. Pierre had given her the perfect alias---"If asked, tell them you're my valet," he'd said, "you'll understand that one day"---and she'd only smiled; little did he know she already knew. So now, at least, Pierre's reputation as Roberts wasn't impugned, and Waverly wasn't about to get killed, either. Certainly a step up from the night before.

Speaking of steps, the girl heard a few coming up behind her. She turned, and there stood Pierre, masked again, arms folded, watching the sunset along with her.

"Tell me," he said finally. "What did you intend to do? Before I took your ship. Did you have a plan?"

Waverly shook her head. "I don't know _what_ I'm doing, really. I just couldn't sit there. I had to help them."

Pierre understood that all too well, and he conveyed that with a nod. "Well. You've got backup now. We should be arriving by tomorrow." A pause. "Nervous?"

Another head shake, which was convenient, since you couldn't tell a lie from the truth with one of those. It was then that the flash of a reflection of light off steel caught Pierre's eye, and something about that reached him somehow, and he looked to Waverly with a new fascination, pointing at the sword strapped onto her. "Is that his?"

Waverly nodded, content for now with letting her head do the talking.

"May I?"

With care, slowly, the girl took the hilt and drew the weapon from its sheath. Pierre accepted it in near-awe, turning it this way and that, watching the fading light dance against the blade. It was as finely crafted a weapon as he'd ever seen; very classic, nothing too fancy, which suited its purpose just fine, considering the owner. A fine man, that one, and a fine sword.

"Show me," he said, handing it back to Waverly.

He'd lost her. "Pardon?"

"You're skilled with a sword, yes? You've had training?"

"Yes...."

"Up with you then. I'd love to see, truly."

"All right." With a sigh, Waverly got to her feet, and if she'd said she wasn't nervous when Pierre pulled out his own sword, she'd have been lying. But there was the comfort of knowing, at least, that he had no intentions of actually killing her or doing any other sort of bodily damage, so that was a plus.

She assumed the opening stance of her style of choice, as taught, and he his. From Pierre: "Begin."

For a moment, nothing. Then, a flash from Pierre's sword, and Waverly deflected it to the side, almost without moving a muscle. Another, this time from the opposite angle, with the same result. He was testing her, that's what he was doing; testing the waters to see just how the masters' apprentice would react.

He was testing her, and she was passing.

He sent another few slashes her way, and her blade interrupted his every time; still, he shuffled forward, advancing on her, so far mildly impressed with her ability.

And then, _Waverly_ attacked _him_.

The move stunned Pierre. It was nothing fancy; it had been simple, just a quick slash toward his right, but it was a confidence move. She was getting bolder, growing more comfortable in her defense; now there was a second jab he had to deflect, all of a sudden she was advancing on him.

_She_. Was gaining ground. On _Pierre_.

Pierre began to focus less on testing her and more on keeping his guard up, not having realized it would be quite this neccesary. Waverly, on the other hand, was just plain focused. Her mind was on Westley's and Inigo's teachings, their fine example, her strength flowed from her wrist, each clash of steel against the Dread Pirate Roberts was proof of her unique and undeniable skill, both genetic and learned.

"You are _very_ good," Pierre commented, shuffling backward, still holding his own.

"I ought to be," Waverly replied, keeping up the attack, "I've worked hard to become so."

He noticed that, like her father, she favored Thibault over Capo Ferro, and she used its principles now to try and infiltrate his defensive---Bonetti, naturally. Clearly she'd been taught well---_very_ well. She was no master, not yet.... But she _would_ be.

Never in his life would Pierre have guessed he'd be sparring with a fourteen-year-old girl. And he never, _never_ would have guessed that said fourteen-year-old girl would be this _good_. It was something amazing, truly it was---and he'd had about enough amazement for now. He could only retreat so much before he'd actually have to start _trying_ to win, i.e. kill her, and that would be bad.

"Wonderful. Shall we call it a draw?" Accompanied with a grin, of course---if he'd really wanted to, he could take her. After a while of course; the child _was_ a prodigy.

Waverly gave a breif nod, and then, in a last remarkable move, darted her blade around Pierre's wrist, flicked the sword right out of his right hand, and caught it with her left, snatching it from out of midair. A flourish, a bow, and the girl smiled broadly, not remotely unaware that she'd just left the Dread Pirate speechless.

Pierre could only laugh, and she handed him back his weapon, which he took and sheathed. "You, my dear girl, are a force to be reckoned with," he finally managed. "I pity the dullard who crosses you for real."

With that and a pat on the shoulder, Pierre headed back below decks, and Waverly turned back to her sunset, hoping against hope that he was right.

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**So, yeah, homegirl can **_**fence**_**. XD What did you expect from the daughter of Westley/student of Inigo Montoya? ;] The crucial moment draws near, so please, drop a review, and stay tuned....**

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	8. Revenge, Torture, True Love, Miracles

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**I KNOW, it's been monthsandmonthsandMONTHS. Like, five of them. Possibly more than that. I'MSORRY. I'm trying to overcome my writer's block on this story and on "You Never Can Tell," but with school busyness and with life and blah blah BLAH, said task has proven difficult. BUT I am reading the book again and my PB-muse has been renewed, so with that, I offer you this shiny new eighth chapter. (You'd think this would have been easier for me to do, since these aren't exactly the **_**longest**_** chapters in the world, it's not like I'm writing a Tolstoy novel or anything here...grumble grumble... ^_^ ) SOHEREWEGO!**

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There were certainly several drawbacks to being chained. Historians have argued over which is the worst, the most torturous, the least dignified---as if it would make such a difference to apply categories, and there have certainly been better things to discuss over the course of time. It was a shame that these historians didn't have the opportunity to simply ask Westley, because _he_ knew, and _that_ could have solved all of their bickering right then and there.

Helplessness. He was completely and utterly helpless. Like a babe in a cradle.

Since there wasn't much else to do to pass the time, he'd done a lot of thinking, and in all his thinking Westley had come up with...absolutely nothing. Unusual, but true. This time, he and Buttercup alone were involved, in captivity. As far as _he_ knew, Fezzik and Inigo were sound asleep at home. Or, dead by the intruders' sword, a remote possibility he didn't even want to consider. There was no conceivable hope of rescue, no possibility of his friends charging the Pit of Despair and freeing them in a flurry of stealth and steel. For God's sake, Westley didn't even have his _own_ sword. There would be no Holocaust Cloak this time. No miracle pill. No wheelbarrow. No lucky bluff, no four white horses, no hope.

Just true love and a dank basement. Not the best assets, but he'd worked with less.

So now it was a waiting game. Wait they did: wait through day, through night, and through day again, passing in and out between consciousness and sleep, and they were still in this waiting cycle when, after an indeterminable amount of time had passed, finally a slow _creeaak_ing sound met their ears, finally a stripe of sunlight poured across the staircase into the Pit.

Buttercup was only just reawakening, but Westley was on his guard from the second he'd heard movement. At least, as much as a chained man could be. He strained to turn his head in the direction of the sound of boots advancing across the floor, but the man was too far behind him to see. Westley faced straightly, defiantly forward instead, his gaze locked. Buttercup grew frightened, squirmed, pleaded to him with her eyes, and without turning he knew this too. "We'll be all right," he assured, firmly, only loud enough for her ears and his own.

A uniformed man of medium height, yellow-grey beard and bushy mustache, stopped in front of them. Buttercup, after a disillusioned moment, recognized her former subject. Westley remembered him as the gatekeeper.

"You can imagine the joy you've given King Humperdinck with your little escape all these years," Yellin began, speaking slowly, smiling the way only a successful teacher's pet can. He was savoring this tiny triumph of his, taking advantage of the fact that he had a good half-day of gloating time before the King arrived to finish the pests off. "He _is_ a dedicated hunter, as you know. Finding you two has proved a worthy challenge. It's sharpened his skills, I think."

Westley said nothing. Buttercup wouldn't have been expected to. This was between the former Dread Pirate and the former gatekeeper, and the first stared defiantly at the latter, both locked into their roles from all those years ago for the rest of one---or both---of their lives. Westley would give no ground. Would not not _not_ rise to the bait. He would wait to speak until something worthwhile came out of the other man's mouth, if that _ever_ happened, and until then not one muscle in his body moved, not even to blink, nothing except the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and even _that_ he kept to a minimum in case their adversary tried to knock the wind out of him.

Yellin lifted his eyebrows; it was like two caterpillars trying to join the mother ship. "Have you nothing to say? You? The dashing weakling who raided the quincentennial, uninvited, who struck panic into the heart of a prince and struck delusion in the heart of a princess? I'd expect you to be a bit more chatty."

Westley answered. He did so casually, lightly, sarcastically, but his eyes darkened with contempt like a brewing storm. "It _has_ been fifteen years---don't you think a proper introduction is in order first?"

Yellin smiled all the wider, clapped his hands together once, bowed deeply. Clearly he was almost _giddy_ to be the bearer of bad news to the most hunted captives in a century. "Oh, _yes_, how silly of me. My name is Yellin. I am the Cheif Enforcer of all Florin. As the lady here should well know, of course. But _you_, sir, need no introduction. The King speaks of you as some sort of...mythological villain. Unable to die." A pause. "The King shall put an end to that."

Almost total humor, though still deadpanned, still muffling anger: "King---so he married after all? My sincerest condolances to the bride."

Yellin's lecherous smile, the echo of his master's, grew until it seemed it might divide his face in half. "You _are_ clever, sir, I will say that." He stepped close to Westley, chained against the wall, and glared directly into his eyes from not six inches away. "Enjoy your wit while you have it. It's all you have left, and it expires with you."

Westley felt no added fear. Not then, and not as Yellin turned and walked back up the steps to the only exit, turning to deliver a final grin and a final warning: "The King arrives by sunset. And when he does? You'll _pray_ for a giant to hide behind."

At that, Yellin was gone. Westley remained unmoved by his words---he still saw him as the trembling gatekeeper who'd cowered at the first sight of challenge. No, the words had done nothing to him.

But the blood, faintly trickling from a shallow incision down his left side, where Buttercup couldn't see, delivered by Yellin's knife somewhere after the word 'wit' as a small taste of what was to come, _that_ was another matter.

Westley's breath had hitched when he'd done it, but he hadn't cried out, hadn't so much as winced in an effort to keep Buttercup oblivious, to keep her calm. And on the surface---above the frantic worry for the state of his daughter, his friends, above the extraordinarily helpless dread of death---that's exactly how Westley appeared.

Perfectly calm.

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"_All_ right; who dies _this_ time?"

The old man wearily dragged his bifocaled eyes off the page and smacked them onto his grandson. "Beg your pardon?"

The boy leaned forward, threw his arms up and back again for emphasis. "Who gets killed? I know _somethin_' like that's gonna happen; you're not gonna get me this time. It's not Westley again, is it? Is it Pierre? And where's the miracle man?"

"Probably at medieval bingo."

"_Grandpa_..."

The bickering session that usually ensued right about here was just going to have to wait. It was then that the door to the bedroom clicked and opened, and the boy's mother's head appeared from behind the Cubs pennant. "Knock knock. Am I interrupting?"

Grandfather: "Nope, not at all."

"Good." She left the doorway and came right up to the bed and sat on the edge---it was too late for her son to notice the bottle and hide. "'Cause it's time for your medicine."

"Awww, _mom_...."

He tried his best ammo, but one all-knowing look from the Mother Unit and the kid's best eye-rolling display was rendered useless. Making all kinds of grimace-like faces, he took the teaspoon she held out and downed the purplish goop as quickly as he could.

"So, where were you boys? Out of the Fire Swamp yet?"

"_Mom_, it's not The Princess Bride. It's a _sequel_---and plus we woulda been way past that by now anyway."

"Oh, I see." Trading a slight smirk with the old man, she took back the teaspoon and stood, heading for the door. "Well. I'll just let you two get back to your adventures."

Neither said a word until she was gone. When the door shut, the boy pressed play again.

"How come you won't just _tell_ me?"

"Well what kind of a question is that? Do you wanna hear the whole story or do you want me to give everything away? Because I can skip right to the end and leave now, if you want me to."

Even when you're ten, there's not much to say against that kind of logic. The boy quieted, folded his arms, sat back against his pre-fluffed pillow. "I don't want you to go. Read it."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes. Sorry."

"All right. That's more like it." The old man sat back in his chair again, browsing the pages for the place he'd left off, and muttered, "For Heaven's sake, kid, I'd hate to be the person who sits next to you in a movie theater..."

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**Oooooo, this was a heavy one... Well. The first part anyway. ^^ Needless to say, Westley is a tad bit **_**angry**_** at the moment...or at least in pain... And the big to-do draws near. ;) ANYWAY. You know the best way to show your TRUE, UNDYING appreciation for this long-time-coming new instalment? A REVIEW. YES. A REVIEW. XD And THAAAAANK YOUUUUUUU to EVERYONE who has just read this, because that means that my Writer's Blockness Monster has not caused you all to jump ship. *HUGS YOU ALL* I promise a speedy ninth chapter! **

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